


The Train

by apprenticenanoswarm



Category: Constantine (Comic), Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bickering, M/M, literary wank, sexual harassment + assault (not on the part of the primary couple), stealth romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:28:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25957516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/pseuds/apprenticenanoswarm
Summary: In which John and the Devil have a chat.
Relationships: John Constantine/First of the Fallen
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	The Train

**Author's Note:**

> \- this fic features two characters from the classic Hellblazer comics  
> \- if you haven’t read classic Hellblazer, OMG GO FIX THAT RIGHT NOW! but if you really don’t wanna, here’s a rundown:  
> \- The First of the Fallen is the current ruler of Hell and John’s nemesis. He was the first thing God ever made and was originally intended to be God’s conscience. That plan fell through for several reasons, one of them being that the First is just an awful, awful person. I ship him and John HARD.   
> \- John the Demon is an entity John created as a dumpster for all the bits of himself he didn’t like, which turned out to be a Very Bad Idea. He lives in Hell and is a nasty piece of work.   
> \- There are QUOTES in this (sorry). Most are from Christopher Marlowe’s Faust; one is from Armando Iannucci’s In The Loop.   
> \- I have no idea if ‘primus lapsorum’ is proper Latin, but it’s definitely one of First’s titles in the comics so.

Long train rides always made him vaguely randy.

No idea why. Bus rides certainly didn’t have the same effect. Being crammed in alongside three dozen other smelly bastards whenever Chas was too busy, too broke, or too annoyed to spend all day carting his arse around town never imbued him with anything more than a desire to scream and kick anyone who came too close, which tended to be everyone.

(One time, a well-dressed woman with a posh accent had come up behind him and fondled his groin, and when he’d inevitably freaked out and punched her hard in the face – _thank you once again PTSD, you truly are one of life’s special pleasures_ – everyone else on the bus had taken turns kicking the shit out of him before tossing him onto the pavement.)

When John died, he had no doubt whatsoever that the First of the Fallen would have him transported to his palace in Hell’s infernal capital aboard a fucking bus.

Probably make it the Brexit bus, just to be extra spiteful.

Trains, though… you had a bit more space on a train. Much harder for creeps to perv on you. And you had something nice to look at, at least when you were travelling through the countryside. Trees. Meadows. Sheep. The steady forward motion did something to his head, unwound something. He didn’t have to endure people breathing on his neck, didn’t have to hold on to something to avoid falling over, didn’t have to give Chas directions or tell him to speed up; didn’t have to do anything except watch the sheep and wait to get where he was going.

And, being the sex-crazed hedonist he was at his core, the moment he genuinely relaxed, his body started getting ideas.

The dirty book he’d brought along to keep himself occupied was, granted, contributing to the problem. Growing up, all the smut he’d been able to get his hands on had starred one man and one woman or, very occasionally, two women, one of whom would inevitably be dead by the end of the story.

These days, though? Lord. They had it all. Steamy romances between beefy, middle-aged pirates, love triangles that ended in stable poly relationships, epic BDSM romps with trans protagonists who were depicted as people, not fetishes. It made him unreasonably happy – and, yes, a little jealous of all the baby queers who would never know a world without it, because he was, more than anything, a bitter old fart.

Back to matters practical; what might be done about his ill-timed stiffie?

He glanced left. He glanced right.

He concluded that there was no chance of slinging his trenchcoat over his lap and knocking off a crafty one right there and then, as he might have done in his ill-spent youth. There were two passengers seated adjacent; one of them curled up under a blanket and snoring loudly, the other wide awake and reading a book of his own.

Resentfully, John eyeballed the reader. Nice suit. Expensive. What sort of arsehole dressed up for the fucking train? Not like anyone would be looking at you. Well, fine, John was looking at him, but that was just because he was randy and the bloke happened to have very long legs. Could have appreciated ‘em just as easily had they been clad in jeans or yoga pants.

_Ugh, listen to you, Conjob. Thinking nasty things about some perfectly innocent gent just because your sad, middle-aged train erection’s put you in a mood. Knock it off._

He shook himself and firmly fixed his eyes on his dirty book.

_…since being kidnapped by the pirate king, Jason had come to recognise that there were aspects of life at sea that he found undeniably appealing. The brisk air and endless blue skies were a welcome alternative to the cramped and mouldy servants’ quarters in which he had resided ever since boyhood. And the crew, while gruff, were amiable, and treated him with patience, despite his skills leaning more towards laying white tablecloths and polishing silver spoons than preparing hearty meals for thirty burly men. John was especially grateful to Ferdinand, the bosun, who’d taught him how to prepare the evening stew before bending him over the ship’s bow and fucking his clever little blonde brains out like John damn well knew he deserved, the impertinent…_

He shut the book.

Tapped his index finger rhythmically against its cover.

Looked up at the man seated opposite him, whose own book, now that he checked, was a copy of _Faust_.

Fucking _Faust_.

And not Goethe’s version, which he’d been mildly obsessed with for most of his early twenties; Marlowe’s, which he absolutely couldn’t stand. Naturally. 

“What the shit do you want?” John growled.

Lowering his reading glasses, the First of the Fallen said, “ _Language_ , John. We’re in public.”

He must have been using a glamour for John not to have recognised him immediately. Hadn’t made the slightest effort to blend in beyond it. Pink as a fucking strawberry lollipop, as per usual, with the stink of offal pouring from his hair and skin. Weird-shaped head. Piss-yellow sclera.

And the watch, _God_ , the watch. It was chunky, titanium or some shit, probably worth several yachts, and the words PRIMUS LAPSORUM were engraved on the side. Christ on a bike.

John folded his arms. “Slow day downstairs, is it? Nothing else to occupy his majesty’s time? Hmm – or did you just dump it all on Nergal and the other lads so’s you could swan about up here sampling the delights of public transport? Don’t ask for the coffee, by the way; it’s ratpiss.”

Lazily turning a page, the First of the Fallen said, “Oh, you know. Sometimes it all gets a bit tiresome. Nergal’s actually in hiding at the moment. Gathering allies while he plots another of his quaint coups.”

“Can’t blame him. You’re a shit boss.”

“I’m _not_ , actually, but you’ll discover that for yourself soon enough. Anyway, I considered erasing him from existence the moment I caught wind of it. But… well, occasionally, these things can be surprisingly useful. Letting them run their course is a good way to test the loyalty of one’s allies.”

John sighed, feeling, once again, sorry for him. “Bad news, sunshine. You ain’t got no one’s loyalty. Only their fear.”

“That will more than suffice,” he said with a grim smile, “until such time as I am no longer the most fearsome thing in Hell.”

The bloke snoring under his blanket grunted and twitched without waking.

“So,” John concluded, “you’ve got it all under control and you’re bored.”

“Basically.”

“And you’re pestering me for attention because I’m not boring and you can’t control me.”

Those eyes – currently the colour of polished brass – snapped up, and John congratulated himself on getting the nob to quit pretend-reading.

“There is a difference, John,” he said quietly, “between ‘can’t’ and ‘don’t’.”

John took a moment to examine his own feelings and privately acknowledged that he was enjoying himself. There was something irresistible about playing the brat before an entity older than time and almost as powerful as God. 

He lifted his shoes off the floor and planted them squarely on the First’s seat, bare centimetres from his pricey pants. “Marlowe, eh?”

“Indeed! _Tamburlaine_ is particularly close to my heart.”

Scoffing, John said, “It’s the sixteenth-century’s answer to Michael Bay’s _Transformers_. Big and loud and stupid. Of course you like it.”

Fidgeting slightly to put distance twixt his immaculate personage and John’s filthy footwear, the First cleared his throat and read aloud: “‘Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib’d in one self place; for where we are is Hell, and where Hell is, there must we be; and when all the world dissolves, and every creature shall be purified, all places shall be Hell that are not Heaven’. What a lovely thought.”

God, what a pretentious wanker he was, in every conceivable way. John rolled his eyes and did a passable impression of Paul Higgins: “‘Ah, th’only reason ye read this shit is because it’s bad form to actually wear a hat that says ‘I Went To Private School’.”

“God,” said the unknown individual under the blanket, giving the word eight syllables and a growl. “Listen to you. Two twats trying to outsmart one another with quotes, like the ponciest pair of nerds in class. No wonder no one likes either of you.”

The blanket fell away and John’s blood froze.

The First of the Fallen was, all things considered, probably the most dangerous entity he’d ever bested. Certainly one of the most vindictive. The most frightening, though? Not even close.

“Hullo, John,” said John the demon, giving him a crooked smile that showed off his lupine teeth.

Trying to keep his face impartial and his voice from shaking, John said, “You’re here too? What a delightful fucking morning this is turning out to be.”

“He was getting fractious,” the First sighed. “So I decided to take him for a walk.”

Fast as a viper, the demon reached over and snatched John’s book. “Worst thing about Hell? Not a scrap of decent reading material. Trying to remedy that myself but, y’know, our brain does have its funny little ways. Concentrating long enough to write a book’s difficult as all fuck even without the screams of the damned ringing in your ears every waking moment. What’s this, then? ‘The Buccaneer’s Heart’? Oooh – this is _smut_.”

The fear ebbed away as John remembered that while his double was as evil as they came, he was also a spectacularly vapid, aimless piece of shit.

And what the fuck was he _wearing_? Every time John had encountered him before, he’d been clad in their usual work clothes; trenchcoat, red tie, white button-up shirt, grey pants. The same outfit he’d had on the day John had chucked him into Hell. Today, however, he’d evidently decided to shake things up.

The foul bastard was in fucking _shorts_.

Tiny denim shorts that showed off every inch of their pale, hairy legs. John _hated_ their legs. Even at the height of Mucous Membrane’s fame, he’d never had the courage to go out in public with anything below his waistline on display.

That said, the shorts weren’t nearly as bad as the white T-shirt that a. had no sleeves, so anyone could see his old cuts, which, great, terrific, and b. had the words BABY SLUT written on the front. He might conceivably have found that cheeky and cute on a man who wasn’t pushing fifty and also a cannibal.

“So,” said the First, offhandedly, “where’re you off to, John? Scotland, is it?”

Immersed in John’s novel, the demon muttered, “Prob’ly Edinburgh. There’s this second-hand bookstore he likes. Picks up all his favourite grimoires there. It’s a tricky business, hunting for magic books; half the time, they’re either cursed or haunted. But the woman who runs the Edinburgh shop’s a witch and she makes sure they’re properly exorcised before selling ‘em.”

Catching John’s eye and winking, he added, “Also, there’s a sex shop next door that sells these bizarre dragon-shaped dildos. I mean – not shaped _like_ dragons, obviously; shaped like what you’d imagine a dragon’s cock would be shaped like.”

“I don’t need to imagine, more’s the pity,” the First grumbled. “Lucifer used to breed the horrible things. There was a time when anyone who dared engage him in conversation risked receiving a comprehensive run-down of his pets’ reproductive processes. When the time came for the lords of Hell to pay one another tribute, he invariably presented me with a vial of semen and a statue of the massive-bollocked beast from which it had been obtained. There is an _entire courtyard_ in my palace filled to capacity with meticulously detailed dragon scrotums.”

“Sounds like he was flirting,” John said, glad to turn his attention away from the demon.

Ha! Got him. The First’s whole aristocratic face spasmed, as it was wont to do whenever John pointed out fairly obvious truths that had never occurred to him because he really was the thickest berk to ever draw breath. “That… I consider that _highly_ unlikely. Social niceties aside, we were staunch political rivals. Outright enemies. All he was trying to do was irritate me.”

John smirked. “Yeah. That’s exactly what he was trying to do. You’re one of those what never pays an ounce of attention to anyone or anything what isn’t irritating you. Come on, you must have noticed.”

“He really hasn’t,” the demon snickered. “He thinks it was his idea to bring me upstairs with him. Didn’t even twig to my spending the last month getting under his skin at every opportunity.”

The First, as per usual, abandoned the façade of elegant civility the moment something even slightly pissed him off. Snarling like a tiger, he seized the demon by the front of his shirt and dragged him up from his seat. “I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut, you worthless little cunt.”

The T-shirt, being a size too small, rose up high enough to expose six inches of mildly flabby gut. John’s body took an immediate interest, and he was utterly disgusted with himself.

And, of course, the cunt in question noticed. He twisted his head round to shoot a very obvious glance at John’s crotch, grinned, and threw his leg over the First’s waist, ending up sitting in his lap.

“Sorry, m’lord,” he mewled, while John’s face turned lobster-red. “Please don’t punish me too much. I’m a good lad, really.”

Wrinkling his nose, the First lifted him off with one hand and tossed him into the aisle, where he lay giggling like a hyena.

Retrieving his book, John commented, “Y’know, when I made him, I was sort of banking on you being able to keep him under control. Let me know if you can’t so’s I can pop me clogs early and sort him out myself.”

“It’s like trying to control a mosquito,” the First grunted, dusting off his pants. “Difficult to do without squashing him.”

“Mm. And you don’t wanna do that, I take it?”

After a pause, the First said, “Realistically, it’s going to be another few decades or so before you ‘pop your clogs’ and grace us with your presence. If I must wait that long, a meagre portion of you is better than nothing at all.”

Then, quickly, as though he regretted the previous sentence and didn’t want to give John time to absorb it, he added, “I think of him as a sort of court jester. They’re dreadfully hard to find these days.”

John hummed and stared out the window. Then he said, “‘O soul, be chang’d into little water-drops, and fall into the ocean, ne’er be found. My God, my God, look not so fierce on me – adders and serpents, let me breathe a while. Ugly Hell, gape not! Come not, Lucifer! I’ll burn my books!’ And that’s his last line.”

Staring at him, the First said, “I thought you didn’t like Marlowe’s version.”

“Don’t. Hate it. It ends by telling the audience _not to read too much_ , for fuck’s sake. But you don’t have to like a thing to know it by heart.”

They studied one another for a moment.

Then the First stood up. “I have things to do.”

“Aww, not yet. We only just got here,” the demon whined, as Hell’s overlord snatched a handful of his hair. “You rotten ars-…”

The pair of them vanished.

John rubbed his eyes tiredly, sighed, and picked up _The Buccaneer’s Heart_ again. It took him a moment to remember what page he’d been on, and when he reached it, he found that the scene he’d been reading was cut off mid-sentence, its second half replaced by:

**MEPHISTOPHELES (to Faust):** **_Thinkest thou heaven is such a glorious thing? I tell thee, ‘tis not half so fair as thou._ **

“Tsk. Prat,” he said, and went to go jerk off in the bathroom.

**The end**


End file.
